


Semi-Permanent Couplings

by ren_makoto



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Identity Porn, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Snow, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-29
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, Bruce, how do you feel about one night stands?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semi-Permanent Couplings

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists in a slightly different form elsewhere. For this upload, I made some changes to things that always bothered me. A semi-permanent coupler is a train part that connects two train cars together. I have seen the plural of train coupler written as "couplers" and "couplings." Of course I went with the latter because this is porn. Anyway, these train couplings can only be disconnected at a workshop, otherwise, those two cars are just stuck together.

 

 

"This," said the little, curly-haired boy excitedly to his mother, "is the fastest train in North America."

"Is it, dear?"

"Yes! Don't you know?" His little face became very serious as he started ticking off stats. "150 miles per hour," he said, "but that's not its top speed. It can reach over 200, but they limit how fast it can travel because of safety regulations." It all went a little technical after that with the boy babbling on about tilting design and semi-permanent couplings.

Clark smiled and looked away. The train was hardly crowded. It was late on a Wednesday and he guessed most business travelers crammed their weekends full of planes and trains and automobiles, but were safe at home with their families tonight. He'd been covering a political event of some importance and was now heading back north. There was a red-eye from the Boston South Station that would take him back west to Metropolis, but he was tired of travel.

He made the decision to test his feeling once the train hit Boston: If he felt like he could press on, he would, otherwise, he'd settle in for the night, get some much-deserved shut-eye, and then head for home in the morning.

Clark missed Metropolis. Everyone there seemed just a little more honest when compared to the politicians who wheeled and dealed, tailored their answers to come out sounding like angels.

Clark looked out the window at the passing lights and couldn't believe the train was moving as fast as the child said; from the inside, it seemed to be traveling as slowly as any car. Furthermore, the ride was too smooth. The coffee he'd had to give him an extra boost of energy hadn't even sloshed about in the corners.

Outside, the world was pitch black. A few stops back, flurries had tried their best to rally themselves into a real, formidable snowstorm, but had failed. Now the darkness just revealed an overcast sky and it was as frigid as it had ever been with a stiff, bitter wind blowing the bare trees this way and that.

A friendly attendant came and retrieved his empty cup just as an announcement informed the passengers that they were making a brief stop in New York City. It was the halfway point and he took a deep breath, glad that soon he'd be on his way back home. The train slowed and the brightly lit platform pulled into view. Unsurprisingly, many people boarded the train in New York. They shoved their way in, tried to maneuver for seats near the restrooms. All too soon, the seats that had been empty were filled up and the train became loud with chatter. Men and women in suits and shiny shoes stretched up on their toes to slide their bags and briefcases into the luggage compartments. Then they plopped down in exhaustion onto the cushy seats or pulled out newspapers—Clark felt a little proud when he saw a Daily Planet here and there.

Children, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers all stood sleepily on the platform to wave their loved-ones farewell.

The last person to make it onto the train was a tall, dark-haired man in a flattering double-breasted suit covered by a trench coat. He was a little breathless as if he'd run all the way to the station. In one hand was a briefcase and under that same arm was a newspaper. Clark almost rolled his eyes: The Gotham Sun, a newspaper he considered slanted too far to the right except for on foreign policy where it drifted lazily back to the center. Well, even if the newspaper were nothing special, the man reading it certainly was.

He had blue eyes the color of midnight turned lighter like coffee with the creamer of starlight and there was a keen intelligence to them as he scanned the car for empty seats.

There was only one left.

When he made it back to the seat next to Clark, he leaned down and whispered, "Do you mind if I sit here?" Clark was confused by his secretive way of talking until he realized that the man was just being polite: Many of the passengers were settling down to sleep and he was trying not to wake them.

Clark shook his head to the question and added, "No, go ahead," mimicking the quiet tone. The man mouthed, "Thank you" and then placed his briefcase under the chair in front of him but kept the newspaper under his arm. He sat down like a man who hadn't slept in days. For several minutes neither man spoke. Then at the same time they turned, hands out to say:

"Bruce,"

and

"Clark Kent,"

at exactly the same time.

Bruce laughed—a gentle rumble—and took the hand that Clark offered. "Nice to meet you."

Bruce's hands were smooth and strong. He didn't let go for a moment and his eyebrows lifted high. "You're hands are really warm," he said.

"I get that a lot," Clark replied. They released each other's hands with a certain reluctance. Bruce placed his hands back on his lap. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted his body to face Clark.

"I've never seen you on this train before," Bruce said as the train slipped smoothly out of the station. The bright lights of the platform gave way to the sporadic peppering of shop lights and streetlights.

The corner of Clark's mouth pulled up. "I usually fly. How about you?"

"I end up taking this train more often than I care to mention. Or I drive. I live in Gotham," he explained. He took the newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it as proof. "See?"

"Oh, right," said Clark. He kept his face void of any hint of how he felt about the newspaper. Now just seemed a bad time to let that particular grudge surface. He liked the way the conversation was going without it. "Then what are you doing in New York?"

The paper ended up atop Bruce's briefcase on the floor. "For as bustling as Gotham is, my world still revolves around New York. Doesn't everybody's? I'm a businessman, so to speak."

Clark thought about that for a moment then said, "That was cryptic," with a short laugh.

"Wasn't it? It's taken years of practice to be this vague."

"Congratulations: You're very good at it."

Bruce bent at the waist in a bow, rolling his hand before his body like an actor on stage. "Thank you, thank you. You're far too kind. I'll be here all week."

Another unexpected smile stole onto Clark's face and he had no idea of how he was going to make it through sitting next to Bruce for the rest of the trip when he made him grin like a fool every time he spoke. Catching Clark's smile, Bruce flashed one of his own. Then he looked at him speculatively. "So, Clark, what's your trade?"

"I'm a journalist."

"Not your rag, huh?" Bruce inquired, pointing to the paper at his feet. To his amusement, Clark looked a little flustered.

"Well, no. I write for the Daily Planet."

Bruce's face brightened with recognition. "No wonder you scowled at the Sun! And I wondered why your name sounded familiar. Clark Kent of the Daily Planet. I've read your work. You write well."

Clark's face went red. "Thank you," he mumbled. "Just…you know. I enjoy my job."

"I can see that." It was a simple statement, but with Bruce's raised eyebrow, there seemed to be so much more to it than that. Clark felt, undeniably, that nothing was ever simple with Bruce Wayne. It was possible that his every word had two meanings and sometimes more.

Without a rumble or a shimmy or even a bump, the train made its way north. Bruce and Clark kept up an easy, quiet conversation while the rest of the car dosed around them. Bruce and Clark both held only a passing interest in sports, but were secret politicos. Their family and friends didn't necessarily want to hear about their political views, but luckily their respective careers gave them plenty of opportunities to get it out of their systems.

"The political columnists probably love to see me coming during coffee breaks," Clark said with a smile. "I'm the only other guy who cares."

"Just about everybody cares in the office," said Bruce with a shrug. "I've always got somebody to talk to about it all. Some of our guys go to the conventions. Have lunch with mayors and governors."

"You?"

Bruce shook his head, but it wasn't a 'no' necessarily. "Comes with the territory," he said at last.

Now Clark was intrigued. "What exactly  _is_ your business?" he wondered.

"Well, WayneTech," Bruce said honestly.

Clark's face shifted in understanding. "Oh, you work for…wait…" the understanding changed jerkily to shock. "Bruce  _Wayne_?"

Bruce gave a nod, but there was resignation and even disappointment on his face. "Left that part out, I guess."

Clark paused to think, tiptoed around this carefully.

"I guess I can see why you did," he said. "But maybe you should just throw it around like crazy. I mean, having a name like yours must be a great way to get attention from ladies."

Bruce's laugh sounded like relief, as if he too had been enjoying the conversation and was reluctant to ruin it with a lie by omission or the shocking truth. "The ladies who care who I am are usually the kind I should stay away from."

"Right, but…?"

"But," Bruce sighed. "But they're usually the ones I end up dating." The corners of his eyes crinkled and he shook his head in a self-depreciating way.

Honestly like that deserved honesty in return, Clark reasoned, which is why he found himself saying, "At least they're all in your league. Me? I always go for the impossible ones."

Bruce shook his head. "What makes you say that?"

With a scoff, Clark indicated his mediocre suit, boring glasses, and bland hairstyle with a wave of his hand up and down his body. "I mean, look at me. I'm not winning the Mr. Universe title any time soon."

Looking away with a shake of his head, Bruce spoke quietly, almost to himself: "I don't think you know what you're talking about. Glasses don't hide your…never mind."

Clark swallowed reflexively a few times and tried to keep calm. It worsened a second later: He felt the hairs stand up on his arm when Bruce's eyes drifted to his left hand.

"Apparently you finally caught one of them. She wasn't an so impossible after all. How long?" he asked and half pointed at the simple gold band.

"Three years," Clark said and felt very strange. "And she _was_ pretty hard to catch," he said, fumbling for something to say. "Drove me crazy for about ten years. It's always the ones you can't have that keep you up at night." He squinted at Bruce from the corner of his eye, refusing to turn his head. "You?"

"Never had the time to settle down," Bruce said with a shrug. "So what's her name?"

"Lois."

"She's a lucky lady."

And there was no good way to answer that so Clark cleared his throat and returned to looking out the window.

* * *

They spoke animatedly about politics and food and travel for about half an hour while the scenery outside became bleaker and bleaker. Neither man noticed.

That is until an authoritative voice broke over the intercom, interrupting their conversation. "Ladies and Gentleman," he said and the dozing people stirred and then sat up, "we've just been informed that there's nothing but ice up ahead. They're working on the problem, but until they can be sure it's safe, we're going to sit tight right here. We're sorry for the inconvenience. We'll keep the heat pumping and keep you posted. Thanks again for riding with us."

"Hmmm," Bruce said after the voice clicked off. "Not good." Then he was reaching into the pocket of his trench coat and retrieving a cell phone. He stood, looked at Clark apologetically and said, "Excuse me, I better make a call."

He walked down the aisle, tiny cell phone to his ear, and began prattling in rapid-fire Spanish. Clark smiled and shook his head. It was just one more thing about Bruce to add to a growing list.

When Bruce returned, he looked a little tired and maybe as if something major occupied his thoughts, but he smiled a sincere smile at Clark and returned to sit beside him. They're legs brushed together as he sat and Clark felt this static shock of awareness go up his leg and then veer to his groin. He hid his reaction with a smile of his own and asked, "Everything okay?"

"Yes, but I really wish I could be in two places at once. Or at least move fast enough on my own to not need public transportation."

"It's not all that great," Clark said then added, "or so I've heard."

Bruce raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The heat that the conductor had promised was a little too hot and Clark tugged on his tie to loosen it. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Bruce refused to do anything of the kind, though Clark could tell he wanted to shrug out of his suit jacket. Clark found he wanted Bruce to do it as well, to strip slowly in front of him.

He said as much, only not in the way he wanted to say it—up against Bruce's ear in a suggestive whisper. Instead he looked at his hands and said, "If you're hot, you should take off your jacket."

And Clark could feel Bruce's eyes on him as he said it, but he couldn't meet them. Bruce didn't look away for some time and then he stood. "Good idea," he said.

The rustle of clothing drew Clark's eyes to watch as Bruce twisted, stretched and then eased the jacket down his arms. It had hid quite a physique, one that Clark was imagining with even less covering it. And Bruce, who was watching him watch him, slowed his movements down as he folded the jacket neatly and draped it over the back of his chair.

"Better?" he asked and the double meaning was back again, as strong as ever.

"Yes," Clark answered honestly, not really caring which way the answer was taken.

Bruce sat down again and they remained on the motionless train side by side in companionable silence for stretched moments. Clark kept his eyes focused outside, or on the seat in front of him, but his ears were trained on the slowly steadying breaths coming from Bruce beside him.

In, out, softer, softer, in, out.

They evened until it was obvious that he had fallen asleep. A few minutes passed and then Bruce's head lolled to the side and Clark found himself with a shoulder full of Bruce. It wasn't unwelcome.

His hair smelled clean and fresh. This close, Clark could see the beginnings of stubble coming in along his chin and the women-would-envy length of his eyelashes. His breathing was even and deep, as if exhaustion had hit him all at once and he had been left with no choice but to bow to it.

Clark didn't imagine Bruce was the kind of man who bowed to anything easily. He must have been truly tired to fall asleep on Clark's shoulder like this. The arm of the seat was keeping Bruce's long body at a distance and for a wild moment, Clark wanted to lift it to remove that barrier. It would probably be more comfortable for Bruce as well; he was slipping further and further down and burying his face closer to Clark's neck. His breath was a constant tickle, blowing the hair at his collar gently with each exhale.

Unable to fight the urge anymore, Clark wiggled his hand down and lifted the armrest. Instantly Bruce scooted closer until they were pressed flush from their sides to their knees. Clark bit his lip and clenched his hands into fists because fists meant his fingers couldn't act on their impulse to go combing through Bruce's impossibly black and shiny hair.

Clark didn't know how much time passed with Bruce's head on his shoulder, comfortable and easy like he was always meant to fit there. Snow piled up outside, starts twinkled high above the resting train, and the world spun the way it was meant to. Clark listened.

In, out, in, out.

Finally, the intercom buzzed to life again, but Bruce didn't stir.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the voice said. "Unfortunately, we're not getting off of this track any time soon. We're backing up and letting you off at the last station we passed. We're sorry for the inconvenience. You'll all receive a voucher for a pretty good nearby hotel for the night and there's a fleet of cabs waiting outside to take you. Thanks for riding with us."

Clark frowned, this was very inconvenient. For him, and he guessed for Bruce, too.

"Bruce," he said and then gave him a little shake by his shoulder when it seemed as if he simply wasn't going to wake. He turned his head, leaned closer to his face, "Bruce."

"Bruce!" he said, a little louder, a little closer, so that when Bruce looked up, there was just a centimeter of space between their lips and for a crazy minute Clark thought they were just going to start making out on the train.

Was alarmingly more than okay with that.

Felt disappointed when Bruce blinked blurrily, pulled away slightly and said, "Why are we going the wrong way?"

"There's ice on the track ahead. We can't go forward, so they're taking us back to that last station."

"That just figures," Bruce laughed and sat up to stretch hugely. Clark looked away until he was done, battling with his own impulses.

"I don't even remember what station that was," Bruce continued. "I must have been distracted talking to you."

Clark forced a smile. "Yeah, me too."

The train pulled into the station shortly thereafter. Bruce and Clark exited the train car together, and there was a moment of hesitation where they both looked at each other, speculation in the exchange. As one, as if the had reached an agreement silently, they walked to a waiting taxi.

Bruce gave the driver the name of a hotel. An expensive hotel, one much better than the one covered by the voucher the conductor had given them both. Clark tried to stop him, but didn't know how best to do so without sounding petulant. He just gave up and decided to go where Bruce led him.

For the long ride, they sat closer than necessary, and from time to time, Bruce leaned over Clark to point out the window at some local point of interest, barely visible in the dark.

It was unbelievably intimate and Clark felt jittery and like his nerves were electric-charged. Every few minutes of the ride, Bruce found some new excuse to get close to Clark and Clark found himself playing along. He slapped Bruce's knee when he said something funny, moved his leg closer. Bruce didn't pull away, didn't stop him.

Which is why Clark was beyond surprised at the concierge's desk when Bruce ordered a single king for himself and "One for you too, Clark, right?"

Clark almost said, "No, I'm with you," or something equally damning, but just nodded and took the key he was handed. Bruce took his own key and together they rode the elevator, both with their briefcases and Clark with luggage at his feet.

"Same floor," Bruce commented and Clark just nodded. He felt completely unbalanced.

They arrived at their floor and stepped out into a beautiful hallway dripping large and colorful paintings from every wall.

"Well, goodnight," Clark said quietly. "Um…that's me, 815," he added and waved at the room.

"800," Bruce said and waved in the opposite direction. "Goodnight, Clark. Thanks for a lovely discussion."

And then he was gone. Clark let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and shuffled to his door.

Inside—bag and briefcase thrown down and tie laying half on the desk—Clark ran his fingers through his hair madly. This was a very bizarre situation. He only turned on one lamp, the one farthest from the bed, and the room was very dim. It made him squint for a moment before his eyes adjusted to the sparse lighting.

He tried sitting, but jiggled his leg in agitation. Then he sprang to his feet and began pacing the room like an anxious groom before the wedding. It took way too long to get from one end of the massive room to the other, and Clark was reminded once again of how outside his means this room was. How was he going to afford it?

The bed was big enough for three of him. Maybe four.

Or maybe just two with lots of room to tumble. That thought made him curse himself and he was pacing again, into the bathroom, gawking at the ornate mirror and giant shower. There was, for no reason he could fathom, a hot-tub sunken into the floor and Clark thought of Turkish baths.

The towels were fluffy enough to be ridiculous. He shut the door on the bathroom, skirted the bed like it was dangerous, and looked again at the room. The furniture was all so tasteful and comfortable-looking that Clark was afraid to sit on any of it.

And now Bruce was down the hall and…

He'd wanted to talk to him a little more. He wished he'd borrowed a pen from the guy or accidentally grabbed his briefcase instead so he had a reason to go down the hall and knock on his door. In his life, opportunity passed Clark by more often than he liked to think, but today was the fastest it had ever abandoned ship.

Clark imagined a million scenarios where he purposefully went down the hall to Bruce's room, knocked on the door and, when it was opened, said without hesitation, "I thought maybe there was something between us."

And then they spent a fabulous night together. The details got a little hazy because, well, hell, he wasn't supposed to be thinking anything of the kind at all.It was all very daring and fabulous in his mind, and also completely impossible for him. Every time he thought he might take that step, something turned his feet to lead.

"So, Bruce, how do you feel about one night stands?" he asked his reflection in the mirror then burst out laughing. He was about to call himself an idiot ten times over when there was a knock on the door. Clark almost jumped from his skin. He whirled to face the door and looked at it wide-eyed.

Slowly, he approached, took a deep breath. He'd never get another chance at this, so he had to say everything he had to say as well as he could, as quickly as possible. His face was flaming.

With one last steadying breath, he opened the door. Bruce was standing outside with his business shirt unbuttoned, the tie long gone. The keycard to his room was in his hand, but he had nothing else with him. He slid it into his pocket absentmindedly.

He wasn't smiling, but his eyes never left Clark. The expression on his face could have been a million different emotions. Clark hoped it was just one of the above.

He waited for Bruce to speak first. A long, silent moment passed and Clark gave up on Bruce speaking first, threw caution to the wind and said, "If you didn't feel anything, I'm sorry, but I thought there was something between us."

The part about 'So would you like to have dinner sometime?'

No, that never got past his lips.

The line about 'Maybe we could meet up when you're free?' never even made it to the idea of the first syllable.

Actually, Clark never made it past the word 'feel' and that was okay with him because…

Bruce pushed into the room, held Clark's face still by cupping his cheeks and just…

Clark stumbled back but with one flailing arm threw the door closed before he became incapable of anything other than sucking on Bruce's tongue.

Bruce broke the kiss long enough to yank his glasses from his face and they landed somewhere on the carpet and maybe any other day, Clark would have been upset. Today he didn't care even a little.

Bruce tasted like coffee and tired and just what Clark had been needing for a long time. It was good enough that he groaned and contrived to get their mouths closer, Bruce's open wider, his tongue deeper.

The kiss stopped suddenly when Bruce pushed him away.

"What did I—?" was the beginning of the question Clark never got to ask because Bruce stopped him by reaching down to take Clark's left hand in his own. Breathing hard, he raised it so that the palm was right before his face. Then he turned the hand from side to side. The light from the lone lamp caught on the gold band on his finger.

"Bruce…" Clark said and he wanted to explain, but Bruce stopped him by folding back all the fingers but the one with the ring. Then, slow and deliberate, he slid the finger deep into his mouth, wrapped his lips around the band. He ran his tongue all around it and then pulled back. The ring was clamped in his teeth.

"Jesus," Clark said, eyes wide.

Bruce took the wet ring from his mouth, looked at it once, and then extended his arm to drop it in the pocket of Clark's pants.

Clark watched it sink away, hidden, and then looked back to Bruce. "You don't care?"

"You're not married tonight," Bruce answered and lunged for Clark. And the kiss drowned out the arguing voices in his mind. Wanting something and getting what you want are never the same thing. The length of time he'd known Bruce versus the length of time he'd known Lois either made this very, very right or very, very wrong.

He made a muffled sound into the kiss and then pulled Bruce closer by threading his fingers together at the back of his neck. Bruce steered them further into the room and Clark almost yelped when his knees hit the bed. It was just a fluke that he didn't go over gracelessly. Instead, he arched up into the hands that were undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Bruce made it halfway down before he just growled and gave up. Buttons straining across his stomach, the fabric went down hard over his shoulders then caught on the bend in his elbows. Clark had to drop his arms to help expose more of his chest so that he could feel those hands all over his body.

"Okay, hold on, hold on," Clark huffed into the kiss when it looked like Bruce was about to rip one of his best shirts off of him. "I'll get it, just…hold on."

Bruce took Clark's lower lip with him, sucking on it hard and then letting it go abruptly when the message to stop caught up with him. Jerkily and with a hungry look on his flushed face, Bruce dropped his hands and took a step back. "Okay," he whispered back. There was tension in his shoulders, in his flexing hands. Clark's body shook once, overwhelmed by how much Bruce wanted him.

He got the shirt off in what seemed like hours, always aware of Bruce watching him, barely holding himself away from Clark.

"Your pants," Bruce hissed.

Clark swallowed and swallowed again while his shaking fingers undid the fly to his pants. He stepped out of them, left them on the floor and without hesitation took his boxers off. Naked, cock straining up to his stomach, he should have felt embarrassed. He didn't.

Bruce was looking at him in a way that made his heart thunder. He turned slowly, arms away from his body, because somehow he knew Bruce wanted him to. When he was facing Bruce again, he stopped, waited as if asking, "Well?" His breath stalled in his chest, anticipating Bruce's answer.

"Good," Bruce said. And Clark wasn't vain, but he knew what his body looked like. It was smooth and strong and his chest was broad, his legs muscled and long. But lust had apparently taken away Bruce's ability to speak, as if he wanted so many things all at once that he didn't know where to start.

Clark had a pretty good idea. Boldly, he walked away from the bed and lowered himself into the overstuffed chair pushed flush against the wall. He lifted one leg and draped it over the arm of the chair, spreading himself for Bruce to see. Still visibly overcome, Bruce stalked to Clark, eyes never leaving his.

When he reached him, he leaned down, braced one arm on Clark's leg and the other on the arm of the chair. He leaned down low over Clark and something about his expression was asking for permission. "Please," Clark said, granting it.

Then Bruce dropped down to his knees, leaned forward.

To Clark, even the idea of Bruce on his knees on the floor in front of him was mind-blowing. But when Bruce started licking up and down the underside of his cock, Clark thought he could die a happy man right then and there. He was hard and thick, purpling with blood, veins standing out for Bruce to trace with his tongue.

With the hand not holding his cock steady for his tongue to lick, Bruce fondled his balls, kneaded them gently. Clark felt flushed and dangerously closer to the edge than he'd intended to be. Looking away was not an option, or it wasn't until he almost drowned in sensations when Bruce opened his mouth wide and then dropped his head to put his mouth where his hand had been: all over his sac, licking and sucking, pulling the flesh into his mouth. Then Clark's eyes rolled back in his head and his lids shuttered down.

It wasn't gentle and Bruce was breathing hard through his nose, each exhale tickling the hair of Clark's body.

He sucked Clark's balls into his mouth, kissed them, licked everywhere, the top of his head bumping Clark's erection. Encouraging, Clark ran his hands through Bruce's short hair. It was an effort to open his eyes again, but it was worth it: watching Bruce in a frenzy between his legs was the hottest thing he'd seen in a long time.

Wet, just a little dangerous with the occasional scrape of teeth. And it was turning into the longest, most wrong and good for it blowjob of his life. Bruce could suck cock liked he'd been born to do it.

Bruce always kept surprising him with his mouth and hands, the way he touched him and never seemed tired of unhinging his mouth to suck one ball into his mouth, then the other. He let the skin slip until just a hint of skin was pressed between his lips, he sucked on it and drew back just enough for Clark to feel that tension. And that taut piece of skin got teased more and more with longer, harder sucks, wetter swipes of Bruce's tongue. And then the entire sac was attacked again, Bruce burying his mouth and nose against his balls hard and desperate.

"Shit, that's just sick," Clark hissed. Bruce looked up at him through his dark, thick lashes and words like _smoldering, heated_ , and _demanding_ shot through Clark's mind as surely as lust shot through his body.

Bruce loosened his mouth, let Clark's sac fall back. "Sick? Do you want me to stop?"

"Don't you dare," Clark panted. It felt like heaven, and Bruce had barely even touched his cock.

And finally—like he had been waiting for it for a lifetime, not just since meeting Bruce on that train—Bruce opened his mouth wide and took the head of his cock in his mouth and just sucked so long and hard that if that suck could have been a sound, it would have been a long, trembling blues note, slinking its way through a night club, painting the corners in sultry.

Bruce was sloppily licking him, shoving his head down over and over again to take Clark's erection deeper until he was down as low as he could get, his hand stroking the remaining length. Bruising the back of his throat with the blunt head, pounding that cock into his throat hard and hard and harder, mouth stretched wide around the thickness.

Clark felt like all the bones in his neck had melted. Unable to support his head, it just dropped back, cushioned by the chair. He threaded his fingers through Bruce's hair, teased the shell of his ear. He wanted to use his hands to let Bruce know that it was good, that he liked it, never wanted it to stop.

Bruce was working the muscles in his throat around the head of the cock that was gagging him, choking him though he wouldn't stop, never wanted to stop, sending waves of crimson through Clark's body. It was so noisy, no other sound in the room but the sucking and the noises it ripped from Clark. Bruce drooling around the cock in his mouth, running his tongue all over it wetly.

And it was too soon, too much—

There was a rush of lightheadedness like a jolt of caffeine at midnight shooting up through Clark's body to the top of his head and then out and over him like rain and his hands tugged too hard on Bruce's hair—and he'd apologize later, really—and then he was coming hot and thick right down Bruce's throat, flooding his mouth with it and jerking through it.

And Bruce just kept swallowing, gagged once, recovered and kept swallowing. He stroked Clark's thighs through it as if encouraging him to keep spurting as long as he wanted, forever, like he would always be there to suck his dick dry and like it. He kept sucking long after Clark couldn't give any more.

He finally pulled back just before it might have started to hurt, breathing hard and swallowing over and over. His lips came off of the head and—

"Mmmm," Bruce said from deep in his cum-coated throat. Because Clark was still hard, still wanting to fuck. Bruce seemed to approve and he jacked the spit-slick cock a few times, letting it know it wasn't over.

Clark sat up, felt like he might just tumble to a million pieces. "That was good. Really good," he said. Bruce wiped at his swollen mouth and raised an eyebrow as if to say, "I know."

He shuffled back on his knees when Clark made to stand and when he was on his feet, that cock he'd loved sucking so much was right before his face again. He licked his lips and then buried his face against Clarks' hip, licking at the sweaty skin. "I'm gonna suck you again," he said and mouthed at the base. He shifted on his knees so his legs were spread wider and his hot, leaking cock was pressed against Clark's leg. He rubbed himself off while running his tongue and hands all over Clark's tender erection and balls and all the sensitive spots nearby.

Clark steadied himself on Bruce's shoulder, thought he might pass out from coming so hard once, and feeling like he was going to come again just from seeing Bruce kneeling before him while he stood strong and in control, so much taller now, so dominant.

He could fuck his mouth as hard as he wanted and Bruce would let him, _like it_ even, if the first time were any indication. "You like this," he said almost mystified.

Bruce made a strangled noise of agreement in his throat and then moved to suck on the overly sensitive head. He held the thick meat almost too hard with one hand while he bobbed up and down just over the tip and back.

"You like sucking my dick? Just _my_ dick, Bruce? Or do you just like being dirty?" Clark whispered, feeling a little dirty himself.

Bruce's hips jerked and his cock slipped against Clark's leg and Clark could tell that he'd never get enough friction this way to come himself. The wet slide of the cock against his leg, the sideways angle Bruce had to take to suck his cock while rubbing himself off, it was all too much, like no sex he'd ever had before.

"Do you like having someone else in control?"

Bruce moaned deep in his throat and the vibrations made Clark's hands scramble on his shoulders.

"Stop," he said hoarsely. Bruce did, reluctantly, slowly easing off the shiny, purpling head with a wet smacking noise.

"Stand up."

Bruce stood.

"Take your shirt off."

Bruce did, staring at Clark as he moved with eyes like midnight.

His shirt pooled on the ground and there he stood, skin mottled and puckered with scars and scratches stretched beautifully over a chest as muscled as Clark's, if not as bulky. Clark loved his imperfect body with his eyes, noticed his nipples were pale, like caramel swirled with milk and a fine line of hair disappeared beneath his pants. His waist was narrower than his as well, the muscle a little more defined. Narrower hips, arms not as broad, though still so thick with muscles that Clark's mouth went dry imagining trying to pin him to the bed with his hands at his biceps, trying to wrap his hand around those big muscles.

"Your pants," Clark said and found he wanted this unveiling as much as Bruce had wanted his, maybe more because…the suit had hidden a lot.

Bruce toed off his shoes, undid his belt with unsteady hands, was amazingly graceful with how he pulled off first his pants and then his boxers. His legs were just as bad with thick and raised scars crisscrossing everywhere. But they were long and strong and looked like they could wrap around Clark, hold him tight while they fucked face to face. Squeeze him hard enough that he could feel it days later.

Clark narrowed his gaze. Bruce's cock was delicious and he wanted to do to Bruce what he had just done for him. He licked his lips. "You look so good," he said, but Bruce just shook his head like he could never believe anything of the kind.

Then Clark pulled their bodies together immediately, kissed Bruce's lips frantically, ground their hips together slow and nasty, cock against cock, slicking Bruce with his own spit.

Clark's hands drifted down, clutched Bruce's ass and pulled hard until there was no space, nothing between them, like they could fuse into one like this, just melt together, fuck each other forever.

He broke the kiss to suck on Bruce's ear and then bite it, and loved how Bruce's fingers skittered all over his skin, how one finger traced his crack, seemed to want to dive in even at the awkward angle.

"Yeah," Clark said and then, "bed."

They kissed and stumbled their way to the massive bed, fell onto it on their sides, touching each other and staring at each other. They were so similar—dark hair, blue eyes, strong features—but the differences were fascinating.

Bruce sucked a dark bruise onto the skin above Clark's nipple, cried out when Clark shoved his knee between Bruce's legs and told him in a growl to "Ride it."

Bruce held on to Clark's shoulder, one arm crushed beneath his own body weight, looked into Clark's eyes and thrust.

"Fuck," he said and took a gasping breath. "I can't—"

"Do it," Clark said, dark and desperate. The emotions across Bruce's face were so intense, as if the man were lost inside everything he was feeling, uncertain of how to deal with all this newness and Clark needed to see those emotions more than anything else.

Bruce made the next thrust slow, rocked his hips so that his neglected cock slid up and down along the muscle of Clark's thigh, leaving a wet trail from the head, lubricating the path it took so that the next thrust was wetter, just a little slicker.

"Clark," he begged, like he was about to fly to pieces.

"Come on, fuck yourself," Clark said. "I want to watch you come."

The noises Bruce made steadied out with each slide of his cock against Clark's flawless skin. His head dipped lower and lower until he was resting it against Clark's shoulder while he used Clark's leg to bring himself off. Clark stroked his body, twisted his nipples and then shoved a finger into Bruce's hot mouth for Bruce to suck as he jerked again and again. "Suck it," Clark said. He couldn't look away from that mouth, the one that had seconds ago been ruined with his cock, as it sucked hungrily on his finger. So he added another, thrust them in time with Bruce's wild rocking against his thigh.

When Bruce came it was with a startled cry, then he bit down on the fingers in his mouth hard enough for Clark to worry about him. Finally, he clung to Clark as he drenched his leg and stomach in sticky ropes of white. Spent and trembling, Bruce returned to sucking on his fingers, loud and lovingly.

"You're so hot," Clark whispered. Bruce's reply was to release the fingers in his mouth, tilt his face and kiss Clark, mouth open, begging for a tongue to fill his mouth. While he kissed Clark, Bruce's hands roamed across the smooth expanse of Clark's arms and hips. Finally, he slid them back up to take Clark's hand from where it was resting on his hip and pull it, twist a little to bring it behind his back and then place it where he wanted it.

Clark's eyes went cloudy and his heart went a little fast. "Lube?" he asked.

Bruce chuckled low in his throat. "Tell me that _you_ of all people came prepared."

Clark cursed and then sped from the bed. Bruce laughed at the sound of Clark tearing through his luggage. He leaned back onto his elbow and with one hand jacked his softened cock lazily. Soon enough, Clark was back beside him, condom and lube in hand.

"You're quick," Bruce said with a laugh.

"What can I say?" Clark laughed back. "I want to fuck you," he added in a dark growl. Bruce's eyes widened, but he still moved fluidly down the bed to brace himself on all fours and look back over his shoulder at Clark. He was presenting him with a view, a goal, and expected Clark to touch him—

Yes—

There. Just like that.

The lube was cold, but it warmed up soon enough with Clark's hands being so hot, always so hot, and not touching where Clark knew Bruce wanted him to touch, but slicking all the skin around it, spreading him wide and teasing him by avoiding the pucker entirely.

Clark spread him wide, ran his hand up and down the entire strip of skin but didn't penetrate him so that Bruce grunted once in frustration. Clark chuckled and gave in, let his finger breach Bruce who made a low, slow groan as Clark's fingers moved inside him. There were long minutes of thrusting slowly, forcing Bruce open wider with another finger, and then another. Clark added more lube and pushed back in hard, listened to the sound of Bruce panting, felt how Bruce was pushing back onto his hand, fucking himself on his fingers, begging to be fucked now. But Clark was being careful in his preparations, slicking him so that he'd be ready to take him all the way.

"Dammit, Clark, come on," Bruce said and the tone made Clark smile, place a kiss at the small of his back. At last there was the sound of foil being torn, of Clark shifting to roll the condom down.

And then the head of Clark's impressive erection was pushing against Bruce.

"Slow?" Clark asked in a whisper, close to Bruce's ear, shaking with need.

"Hell no," Bruce said and then shouted as Clark worked his way inside, fucked his way inside, stopped, and then went deep, deep—

"Fuck! Clark!"

Clark shouted back and then exhaled sharply.

He was balls-deep in Bruce, curled around his back, nipples against the hot, stretched skin there. And he was too much for Bruce, that he could tell. The tension through his back and shoulders was that of a man who wanted to claw his way across the bed, away from the cock inside of him. If Clark had to pull out, he just knew he'd die. It felt too good to stop.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah. It's just," here Bruce paused to fight down a gasp then finished with, "been a while."

Clark shifted a little, felt Bruce's full-body wince. "Why me?" he asked and sincerely wanted to know. Why let Clark do this to him when he must have turned others away. Why, specifically, Clark?

And Bruce just turned his head to look over his shoulder and kissed Clark slow and with a lot of tongue and teeth.

It was a good enough answer. Somehow, the exact one Clark had needed. Still, he double-checked with, "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," Bruce said, then, "fuck me."

Clark reared back up, placed his hands on Bruce's hip and obeyed.

Clark loved it. Bruce was noisy and the fact that he tried so hard to fight those sounds made this all the better. He grunted or suppressed cries that gathered in his lungs. Clark wondered if the powerfully-built billionaire was capable of ripping the sheets; he clutched them so hard he wouldn't put it past him.

And he trembled with the strain of holding himself up against thrusts that were hardly gentle.

"Let go," Clark said and petted between his shoulders until Bruce did. His arms buckled beneath him and his chest went flat to the soaked mattress. The new angle made him scream.

Now Clark reached deep places inside of Bruce that—

God, if what he'd said was true—

Places no one had touched in a long, long time. It was like he was a tight little virgin all over again, just ready for Clark to take for the first time. It made him bite his lip, squeeze his eyes closed. But it wasn't enough to know that he was the first in a long time, he needed to know that he was the only one who could give it to him the way he needed it.

"Who did this to you last?" he asked as he dropped his torso to run his tongue through the stream of sweat running down the dramatic dip in Bruce's back.

"Nng," Bruce managed, voice muffled by his own fist.

"They weren't as big, were they?"

Bruce barely managed to shake his head no.

"Not as long, either. They were too gentle with you, came too soon. They couldn't fuck you like this, could they?"

"Clark…"

He slowed, pulled out all the way. "Only I can." Resting just at Bruce's lubed opening, still red with irritation, Clark waited, felt a little crazed but couldn't help it: He needed to know this.

Bruce rocked back, chased after the cock, but Clark pulled back further, denying him what he wanted.

Bruce sobbed. "Please…"

"Say it."

"Don't—"

"Say it!"

"Only you can fuck me like I need," he managed breathlessly. "I've needed this from you, god, for so long. I need this, please…"

And that, Clark realized, was what he needed to know.

Then he slammed back in too hard, too fast.

"Shit!" Bruce cried and pushed his ass higher, pushing up to take more cock. "It's good. Fuck…it's so good."

And the pace accelerated, maybe went beyond what Bruce's  body could take, so fast, just—

On the edge of orgasm, teetering, about to tip over—

Then the pace slowed and Bruce came back a step, then another; Clark wasn't going to let him come any time soon.

"Not yet," Clark said and he sounded wrung out, like stopping that rhythm had taken all of his strength. Now Clark wasn't going fast, but he wasn't going slow. This was just a steady _slam, slam, slam_ that felt good to him, like jacking himself off lazily.

"You're too close still, aren't you?"

"No," Bruce contradicted, but his hips had started moving to catch Clark's thrusts, trying to make them harder and faster once more.

"Yes, I think you are. We should slow down a bit. Make this last. Keep you hard all night."

"Fuck," Bruce hissed and chased after that brutal pace, cursed again and again when Clark wouldn't give it.

So Clark drove Bruce crazy with short, shallow jabs. He didn't reach that place inside Bruce that would make him feel this too, but Clark understood a lot about Bruce. He used him like a fist, getting off himself and not giving any back, waited for Bruce to—

"Clark!"

—break.

His scream was so desperate, so needy, that Clark pulled out all the way, flipped Bruce onto his back in a move like something from a karate movie, and pinned him down.

And he'd known his hands couldn't completely span those biceps and this was just, god, perfect.

How did you break a man like this, defeat him, keep him down? You couldn't and that made the attempt all the greater.

Face to face now, Clark got the first view of the dazed and battered look that sex like this gave Bruce. His pupils were blown, his lip swollen and bloody because he'd bitten into it over and over. He was flushed red and sweat streamed down his face. Nothing like Clark's body which was barely damp with sweat and most of that from Bruce. No, Bruce looked thoroughly debauched. He looked like a wet dream and Clark couldn't stop himself.

Clark forced Bruce's legs apart and returned home, right there between Bruce's legs. Got his arms under his legs, lifted them up to wrap around his hips, tugged him closer, then shuddered at the feel of Bruce's muscles welcoming him back. He kissed him once he was seated.

And this kiss was good. Oh, so good. Kissing Bruce so completely while his cock throbbed inside him—it was sending his senses into overload. He didn't break that kiss when he started thrusting again, slow and deep, grinding his hips when his balls slapped against Bruce only to pull back and do it again. He only broke it to lave Bruce's nipples, suck the salt away, bite them just a little too hard just to hear Bruce love it, beg for it.

They kissed again and then Bruce cupped his ass, dug his fingers in.

Clark lifted up, looked into his eyes and waited.

"Don't…don't hold back," Bruce said at last. "I can take it."

Clark blinked and shook his head. "No—"

"You can't hurt me. Not me."

Clark closed his eyes, lowered his head to nuzzle Bruce's neck. "Hold on," he said and then took a deep breath that came out as a sigh. "This will hurt."

"Go. Now."

And Clark did. No, not with everything, never that, but the closest he'd ever come before. He could hear the sounds Bruce couldn't stifle as if from far away, galaxies away, and just lost himself in the feel of this body taking him over and over and—

"Bruce…come with me," he said or thought he said, wanted to say and then he was just coming so hard he thought he might fall to pieces, sob or sing or just die right there. Flooded the condom and screamed so hard his throat went hoarse.

He felt their bodies hit the mattress, tried not to think about what that might mean.

And his stomach was covered in ropes of Bruce's come when he looked down and somehow that made him laugh. Then he just rolled them to the side and held Bruce who was breathing like a man just saved from drowning in the ocean. It must have hurt, but perhaps Bruce liked the pain. _Of course_ Bruce liked the pain.

His hot, wet breath bathed Clark's neck and his body was shaking uncontrollably. But he didn't pull away, just shook and let the aftershocks wrack his body. Clark kissed the drenched top of his head.

"Thank you," he said and wanted to say it over and over again.

Bruce choked out a laugh. "Thank me? God you're twisted." But his hands ran up and down Clark's sides leaving sweaty trails against his skin.

Clark listened as Bruce's heartbeat slowed and then leveled out. Then he pushed Clark onto his back and straddled him. His fingers traced patterns over Clark's chest and Clark just smirked.

Bruce looked amazing, all bruises and shiny scar tissue. Bruce leaned down low, spoke even lower. "What time are you leaving tomorrow, Mr. Kent?"

"I don't know. Hadn't decided yet."

"Then how about round two?"

"You're on," Clark said and had Bruce on his back so fast his breath left him in a loud huff.

Bruce managed to get his arms out of Clark's grasp with ease, buried them in his hair instead. "Hmm," Clark said. "You're tricky. I should have brought handcuffs. Just to see if you could slip them."

"Now why would I be able to do that? Most billionaires can't."

"Yeah, but you like it a little rough. You'd probably get off on it."

"I'm the one who likes it rough? I won't be able to walk for a week."

Clark's eyes went dark and dangerous. "Good," he said and started round two with another long kiss.

* * *

The morning sun revealed a gently limping Bruce slipping on his wonderful trench coat just as Clark was stirring from a very good dream. Sometime when he wasn't looking, Bruce had moved his things into this room. His briefcase was on the desk.

"Wha—?" Clark mumbled and rubbed at his eyes. He looked for his glasses (had a distinct memory of them going on an unexpected trip across the room last night) and found them placed neatly on the nightstand next to a glass of water.

Bruce turned and watched Clark fumble his glasses onto his face and then take a long drink of water.

"You look awful," Bruce said, looking perfectly clean and ready for business himself.

"I feel great," Clark countered as he placed the empty cup on the nightstand. He rose unselfconsciously nude and walked to the bathroom. Bruce shook his head wistfully and stooped with a grimace to retrieve his clothing from the floor. Once everything was folded, he started on Clark's.

Clark returned from the bathroom a moment later, scooped up his boxers, slid them on, and then walked right up to Bruce, reached for him, and frowned when he was halted by a hand against his chest.

Once again, Bruce reached for his hand. This time, it was to return the ring he'd pulled off last night. But instead of using his mouth like maybe Clark wanted him to, he just slid it on the old fashioned way. The gesture made him turn a little red and scratch the back of his head.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Don't mention it," Bruce said, all control and polish once again. It was almost impossible for Clark to believe that this same man had fallen apart in his arms over and over again last night.

As if he considered the matter settled, Bruce immediately went back to packing and folding, holding a perfectly comfortable conversation with Clark as he went, but Clark could tell it was deliberately impersonal. So this, he thought, is what 'goodbye' sounds like after a one-night stand. It was kind of ugly, all things considered and he felt cold.

He flopped down in that giant chair and immediately regretted it because this was the chair where Bruce had given him the best blowjob of his life. He took his glasses off to rub away the headache that threatened. One fabulous night of mind-blowing sex was maybe not worth all the trouble it was causing him.

The snap of Bruce's suitcase closing brought Clark sharply back from his reverie.

"I have to go," Bruce said as he turned to Clark. "I've paid for this room until tomorrow morning. You can stay as long as you like."

"Oh," Clark said and felt a strange rush of shame, like he'd been bought and paid for.

"Don't," Bruce said as if reading his mind. "That's not why."

"Right," Clark agreed and then just went silent. He had no idea how to handle this situation and Bruce didn't seem all that certain either. Finally, Bruce sighed and walked across the room to where Clark slouched in his boxers. His trench coat flared dramatically behind him as he walked and his eyes never left Clark's. He halted, loomed over Clark and made him feel small for the first time in a long time. Then Bruce reached into his trench coat and smoothly withdrew a business card.

"Call sometime," he said, "if you're ever in Gotham."

He slid it into the waistband of Clark's boxers as he leaned down low for a brief kiss.

But when he would have pulled back, Clark slapped his hands down on top of Bruce's hands where they rested on the arms of the chair.

"Don't go. Not yet. Just…one more time," Clark said desperately. "For the road."

Bruce was shaking his head and forming a no with his lips, but Clark didn't want to hear any of it. He pushed aside the flaps of Bruce's trench coat and immediately started undoing Bruce's belt but without looking away from his eyes.

"Clark," Bruce began, but never got to add the "I have to go" he intended to because Clark was imploring him with his eyes. And Clark was banking on Bruce not knowing how to tell him 'no.'

Clark maneuvered him the way he wanted him, to the side of the chair where he didn't have to lean forward extremely to reach him. Bruce went where he was told, toed off his shoes and got one leg free, then he stretched it across the chair, across Clark and rested it on the opposite arm of the chair. The pants pooled on the floor, leaving him in his boxers, but his trench trailed over Clark's body, tickling him every time Bruce moved.

His cock was already lifting and the proximity of Clark's mouth only made the blood rush faster. He tilted Clark's head back with strong fingers at his chin. The position wasn't comfortable for Clark who had to keep his neck craned around to face Bruce. It added another level of sensation to what was already pretty intense. Clark wanted this.

"I'm not the only one who likes to give up control," Bruce said, watching Clark's pupils widen with lust.

Then Bruce just reached into the front of his boxers and pulled out his cock with his free hand. With the hand on Clark's face, he dug his fingers into either side of Clark's jaw, forcing his mouth open.

Then he just dipped forward, slowly, pushing his weight onto his bent leg and as he moved forward, his dick slid into the cavern of Clark's open mouth. And Bruce cursed softly because it was so hot and wet and felt so good already.

Then he braced one hand on the back of the chair and petted Clark's hair and face with the other. "Yeah," he said in a sultry purr, "suck it."

Clark ran his tongue along the underside, seemed to be encouraging Bruce to go deeper. Then he dropped his jaw as far as he could, knew he was drooling and didn't care, and then clutched Bruce's ass through the fabric of his boxers, pushing him in and then pulling him back out.

"You want me to fuck your mouth?" Bruce whispered and then moaned in pleasure when Clark hummed deep in his throat, an undeniable yes.

Bruce started thrusting, slow at first and then harder when the feel of the tongue running over his dick felt too good for him to hold back. His body curled down, closer to that mouth.

"God you can suck cock," Bruce gasped and came down Clark's throat, thrusting through it messily. "Fuck," he panted and stared down at Clark with something like wonder on his face.

Clark had an idea of what he must look like to Bruce: his lips swollen; his eyes glazed and wide; and his cheeks flushed. Bruce touched Clark's cheek softly, almost with reverence. Then he looked away hurriedly. He got both feet back on the ground, stepped back, slid his softening cock back into his boxers and pulled his pants up as gracefully as he could manage.

A minute of shifting and buttoning and he turned back to Clark who was tenting his own boxers and staring at Bruce as he swallowed over and over, not sure when he'd ever be able to forget the taste of him.

"How do I look?" Bruce asked.

"Like you just got sucked off," Clark said honestly, gesturing at his rumpled pants.

"Well, that can only improve my image, I guess." He looked down to the long and thick cock tenting Clark's boxers. "I'd stay and take care of that for you, but then I'd never catch my train."

"It's okay," Clark said. It wasn't, though. It was painful in more than one way.

Bruce took another step backwards, and then several more until he was at the desk. He lifted his briefcase without looking down. It was a neat trick, Clark realized. Other men would have missed or stumbled or knocked into the desk. Bruce wasn't like other men.

Bruce turned his back on Clark then and strode to the door. He opened it, paused and said, "Goodbye," over his shoulder.

And then he was gone. The door clicked behind him.

Clark looked absently around the grand hotel room, noticed that sunlight made it glow. Then he stood, twisting his wedding ring around and around, and went to the shower to take care of the mess Bruce had left.

 


End file.
